As Far as the Eye Can See
by Beryll
Summary: Draco is blinded and Harry, who is distraught over Sirius' death, takes care of him. Draco tells what it's like to be blind and deals with Harry's sadness. Hopefully very romantic (eventually). Rated T for painful situations and eventual slash.


This is my first (well, second, but first finished chapter) attempt at a serious, creative fanfic and I'm actually very proud of it. I'm betting the idea of Draco going blind, or someone going blind, has already been done, and I've even read one like that, but I don't care. This fic is supposed to be exploring the point of view of the blind person and how things would feel and seem to a blind person. Of course, it is a D/H fic, but I'm hoping it will be very sweet and realistic.

Disclaimer: All characters, settings, and situations belong to J.K. Rowling and her affiliates, and what not.

Also, one last thing- Draco says a couple mean things about handicapped people, and I'm not saying that's what I believe! That's how I think _Draco_ would feel about it. There's a very significant difference.

Chapter 1:

I sit at my window, high in the tallest tower of the manor, and I practice my Malfoy glare at everything cold and desolate. In effect, that means I'm glaring at generally everything. A dismal wind makes the curtains flutter gloomily, and I turn my glare at them. I imagine them shriveling up and dying under my stare, and the thought makes me smile slightly, but only with the corner of my mouth. Today is a day for glaring and brooding, I've learned. Today is my sixteenth birthday.

For some people, that's a day to celebrate and exclaim over and receive lots of presents on. Then again, most people aren't the sole child of the most famous Death Eater in Wizardom. That's just my luck, isn't it? Some people get to open gifts on their birthday, and Draco Malfoy, the richest person at Hogwarts, sits in his room dreading the evening.

I've been up here all day, mentally cursing everything and physically avoiding my father. Oh, yes, I avoid my father, the man I cling to so readily at school. I use him as a threat, but only because I know people will cower before him. I cower before him myself, although no one will ever hear me admit that aloud. His is the name that is laced with menace, second only to the Dark Lord, for he has influence beyond many other wizards. Yes, I avoid him.

I refused an invitation to breakfast and lunch, knowing that on any other day I would have been brutally punished for such a rude gesture. However, I know there is no way I could avoid dinner, the one meal my father insists upon me being present for every day of the summer and winter holidays. I know that this evening marks the beginning of the reign of terror, as I have dubbed it.

I have no desire to be a Death Eater like my father. I have seen them do their work, seen them laugh as they torture innocents, seen them curse and back stab each other, and it holds no appeal for me. My father, however, has had his heart set upon my succeeding him since the day I was born. I was born into a destiny, and all I ever was to him was a machine, a well oiled piece of machinery that did what it was told. For a while, I was that machine. I did as I was told. I learned emotionlessness, and the hatred of all things impure, and the cursing of Potter. I was put in Slytherin and I quickly became known as their Prince.

However, sometime last year, I began to watch Potter and his friends more closely as I attacked them. I scrutinized them from a distance and learned about them. I saw the freedom they had, how relaxed they were, and how betrayed they looked after speaking with me. When I applied this same tactic to my fellow Slytherins and my father's Death Eater comrades, I saw only tense, angry people with a future of servitude. My father may have lost track of the Malfoy name somewhere, but I have not, and I know that no Malfoy was made to be a follower.

It was this line of thinking that lead me to my decision. I will not follow my father and serve the Dark Lord, but break apart from him. He thinks he gathers glory for the Malfoy family, but I know, and I know my mother and grandfather know, that all he gathers is fear and disrespect. I will rise above him and reclaim the Malfoy heritage, become a true wizard to be revered. This is my plan.

My plan has one fatal flaw, however. My father will never understand my claims of glory in standing alone, and he will never accept my refusal of the mark. My father will not allow me to be my own person. No, my father clings too tightly to his possessions for that.

As I stare at the curtains and contemplate my predicament, my doors creaks open. I turn to focus my glare on my Manservant, Bodsworth. He carries the Malfoy Traditional Robes over one spindly arm. "Mister Malfoy requires the Young Master's presence at the dining table this evening. He requires the Young Master wear this," he intones formally, holding out the robes. They are high necked and uncomfortable, with many complicated, silver clasps all the way up the front. With a resigned sigh, I take them and toss them on the bed.

"Thank you, Bodsworth. You may go," I reply, and he bows out. I should have known my father would want me to wear the most uncomfortable robes in all of the Wizarding World. He has always been one for upholding every formality in the Etiquette Code of Conduct, a book of etiquette long beloved by the Malfoy family. I glare at the robes as well, before slipping out of my day robes.

I am now dressed solely in my narrow cut black trousers and a white, button up shirt that my father thinks constitute proper wizarding wear to go under robes. I snatch the ceremonial robes off the bed and yank one sleeve on, grimacing as it snags on my carefully manicured fingernails. I pull the other sleeve on more carefully and pop the collar into its proper position. Looking down, I grip the first fastening and buckle it up. Just the first one takes nearly a minute, and its ten minutes before I'm completely dressed. Now fully attired, I move in front of the mirror to examine myself.

The robes are perfectly, inkily black, with a silvery-green snake curling up one sleeve. The clasps are snakes as well, I realize, and I wrinkle my nose at the Slytherin theme. The Malfoys always have had unnecessary house pride, and snake motifs can be found all over Malfoy Manner. I straighten my hair for a few moments with my fingers, as is completely necessary every time I step in front of the mirror, before stepping out into the hall.

Its ill lit out here, thanks to the well spaced scones that decorate the walls. Paintings stretch out of sight down the long corridor, paintings depicting ancient Malfoy after ancient Malfoy. The one nearest to me, a silvery blonde witch with long, scarlet fingernails, waves flirtily at me, and I sneer. I stride down the hallway briskly, knowing that my father would not hesitate to smack me for lateness on my sixteenth birthday.

It takes five minutes to reach the end of the hallway, for Malfoy Manner could accurately be described as endless. The doors to the dining hall rise formidably before me, stretching towards the high ceiling. They swing open magically, admitting me to the most expensive dining hall in Britain. My father sits at one end of a table that could have been stretched all the way across Scotland and into the ocean. There are only two empty chairs at the table, both along one side of the table. This is his subtle way of telling me exactly who will sit where, and I obediently march over to the first of the chairs, pulling it out.

"Oh, no Draco, that's your mother's seat," he insinuates, grinning his sly grin. I turn my head down to hide my scowl and slide into the seat at his right hand, ignoring his amused stare. "Happy birthday, boy," he states calmly. I flinch.

"Yes, well, thank you," I reply awkwardly. I have none of the class I cling to so fiercely with my fellow students. The rulebook is entirely rewritten for my father, and because of that, I cower before him. A fleeting glance into his malicious eyes reminds me of every silvery scar on my skin that he inflicted upon me.

"This is such a momentous occasion, I think it should be celebrated accordingly, no?" he insinuates, a cold gleam evident in his smile. I shiver.

"Yes, sir," I reply, though every cell in my body screams out no.

"You know I entered the Dark Lord's service at sixteen," he continues. How could I not know? He has told me stories from his time as a Death Eater since I was able to breathe.

"Of course, sir."

"And so shall you!" he declares triumphantly. "It is only fitting that my son, my only heir, should begin training at the same time I did!" My heart sinks. So this is what it has all come to. I follow my father, or I disobey him. Adrenaline fills my veins, replacing my blood with fury, and I stand quickly, knocking my chair over.

"I will never become a Death Eater! It's a disgrace to our house, and I won't do it!" I yell, swiftly backing away from him. He rises, too, and comes after me, slowly, like a coiled snake preparing to spring. _He always did love snakes, _I think wildly to myself.

"Not going to be a Death Eater? Disgrace to our house? You are a disgrace to me!" he bellows, swinging his hand toward me. With a resounding smack, it collides with my temple, and everything goes black for a moment. I fall to the ground, only to scamper away, to attempt desperately to rise again. There is no need, however, for he yanks me to my feet again by my collar, and I am choking. "No son of mine will disobey me! Kneel before me!" he screams.

He slams his fist into my temple again, and I am on my knees, swaying. Everything is black again, longer this time. When my vision finally clears, all I can see is a hazy apparition of my father's face, mangled with fury. With a snarl, the hand comes towards me again, and then... silence.

* * *

I am drifting through voices and times and places, floating through time. My father's cruel voice, arguing with someone. He fades away, and another, sweeter voice whispers something. Multitudes of sounds, dozens and dozens of them, all competing to be heard. It is a strain on my mind, and I fall into unconciousness again.

* * *

I am awake, but I can barely tell. It must be late at night, for I can see nothing in the darkness. I sit up, and realize I am in a bed, but I cannot see it, nor even my hand, which I wave around experimentally. There must be no windows in this room, where ever I am, and I assume it's somewhere it my father's dungeons. I peer about, attempting to see something, anything but the darkness is too strong, and I cannot overcome. 

Someone lays a hand on my shoulder, and I whip around. I must be able to see them! Where are they! "Draco," they whisper, and it's a voice I've never heard before. "You must try to relax. Stop trying to look at everything." My heart thuds in my chest, and I can feel fear making a nest in my stomach.

"Why can't I see you? Why is it so dark?" I yell hysterically. Another hand falls on my other shoulder and I am pushed back, despite my struggles.

"It's going to be okay, Draco. Your father hurt you and there may be some... after effects," they say soothingly, hesitantly. I sit straight up again, ramrod straight.

"What after effects? Why can't I see?" I demand. I can hear a sigh of resignation.

"You've gone blind, Draco. Your father hit you so hard in the temple that it damaged your brain and your ability to see. You may suffer from some memory loss, disorientation, and... well, blindness." I sit silently. Blind. Unable to see. Brain damage. My father.

It can't be.

* * *

I wake up again, only to wish I never had. This foul, obtrusive darkness crowds all thought and I can almost _feel_ the sightlessness. I picture ex-friends and enemies pointing at me, laughing at me, cruelly whispering my secret, my blindness, down the assembly line. I can see them for a moment, and then I realize I can't remember their faces. I'll never remember their faces, either, because I'll never see them again. 

I begin to cry, as much as I hate to admit it. I'll never see color again, never known who's in a room with me, never see a pretty face again, never see a picture or a lovely landscape again. Every color, every shape, everything is lost to me, and when other people exclaim over something, I'll never get to see it. No one will ever love me, or if they do, I'll never see them and know them for what they look like.

I was once the top of the metaphorical food chain, the most influential force at Hogwarts. Now, I've been shifted from my position. I am the lowest of the low, a handicapped fool. People will pity me and never again see me as a person. My opinions, my thoughts won't matter. All that will count about me is my blindness. It will over take me, and I won't exist anymore under this suffocating darkness.

I'll never again do the things I love. I'll never again play Quidditch and feel the wind against my flesh, never again make a potion and measure out exact bits of obscure ingredients. I'll never again paint a picture or watch the other students and mentally rate their looks. I'll never again see the looks on the faces of my victims when I play a prank on them, and I'll probably never again play a prank.

Now, now that my father will probably never want to look upon me again, I have no home. I have no money, for he will surely revoke my inheritance. I have no clothing, for I doubt he'll let me back in the manor to retrieve them. I have no friends, for any Slytherin would turn away from a handicapped person, as they are inevitably weak. I haven't even got a wand, for my father keeps it in his study during the summer, to discourage under age magic and scrutinization from the Ministry. I have nothing, for my father has taken everything away from me.

I sit up in my bed, suddenly furious all over again. It's all his fault! That bastard of a man, that emotionless, cruel bastard of a man! He knew what this would do to me. He probably even planned it. I wouldn't put it past him, for he is the master of merciless plans. He's never cared a whit for me, never sent me a loving glance, and now he probably has no guilt whatsoever for blinding his only heir. He's probably in his study this very minute, smoking a cigar, twirling his wand with the other hand, and laughing at me, that shrill laugh he reserved just for me. I can just see him doing it, and telling my mother about it, making her cry. I hate him.

But this never would have happened had I kept my mouth shut. I could have just gone along with, been the good obedient son, become a Death Eater. I could have run away at some other time, could have gone to school and asked Dumbledore, that old fool, for help. But no, I had to play the ridiculously brave Gryffindor and stand up to him. I had to be all moral, had to deny my Slytherin instincts to run, to hide, to find some loophole. I have blinded myself.

There is no way I can continue like this. Sightless, fatherless, as well off as a beggar, I am nothing.

My life has ended.

* * *

The calm voice from yesterday has returned, this time placing something on the bed next to me. I reach for it, wondering what it is, and my hand is grabbed. "What is it?" I ask, frustrated. 

"Food and drink. Stay still and I'll help you feed yourself," it answers. I snarl at them.

"I don't need help from some stranger," I reply loudly. The voice sighs audibly and I can almost see it rubbing its temples, if only I knew who it was.

"There is no other way. Until you become used to your blindness, you will only hurt yourself by doing things on your own. Let me help you," the voice implores. I can feel the tears prickling my sightless eyes again, and I shut them, though it makes no difference.

"Fine. Just tell me who you are," I say tightly, clenching my jaw to hold back the tears.

"I'm just an assistent nursehere. You've never met me, but my name is Paul," Paul tells me. "I've got water, milk, porridge, and toast here. What would you like?"

"Toast. Tell me what you look like." I want to be able to picture him, so I can at least become familiar with who is to be feeding me. I feel something nudge against myhand and I obligingly take it and bring it to my mouth. A piece of toast, comforting in its crumbly, buttery taste, is placed on my tongue and I bite down.

"I'm tall, about 6' 4", and an average weight, I guess. My hair is brown and goes to my ear tops. I have blue eyes," he explains.I chew andswallow, and feel him shift around on the bed.

"Tell me what you're wearing," I ask quietly. I've never used please of my own free will before, and it tastes funny. I take another bite of toast.

"Standardhealer uniform-bright green robes, and so on. Anything else you want to know?" he replies.

"Where am I? What does it look like here?" I ask. Tell me I'm far away from my father, tell me anything, but tell me I'm far away from my father.

"You're at Saint Mungo's. There are six other beds in here, all empty, all white. Everything is white here. Two windows, one right across from you, the other behind you and to the left. The door is all the way to the right," Paul tells me. We sit in silence for a while, him feeding me toast and giving me sips of water. I wonder how far away Saint Mungo's is from the Manor, but I cannot figure it out, for I never learned exactly where Saint Mungo's was.

Finally, I am finished eating, and I can feel the mattress pop back into shape as Paul leaves it. "Anything else?" he asks. I think about this for a moment.

"Two things. First, get me something to do. Anything. Second, get me the Headmaster of Hogwarts," I reply slowly. I can hear Paul's footsteps as he starts to walk away.

"Sure. I'll be back in a bit."

_To be continued…_

Well, there we go. Another one chapter thing that I may or may not end up continuing. Stick with me, though! I really like my idea for this and I want it to go somewhere.

I also attempted to space this out some, but I don't think it worked. Apparently, this thing doesn't like double spacing. Stupid thing.

Until next time…


End file.
